


Heart Wears Thin

by buckysbears (DrZebra)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Post-Framework, and daisy being there for him and relating, no real spoilers for the last ep, the abuse is not shown but its discussed in a nongraphic way, this fic is basically just fitz struggling to come to terms with what happened, this is more dealing with the aftermath and complicated feelings than anything else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 04:07:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10891374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrZebra/pseuds/buckysbears
Summary: It happened again. It happened again and Fitz knows that it's his fault. There's something about him that invites it. There must be. It happened again and thatmeans something.Daisy sheds some light on the situation.





	Heart Wears Thin

**Author's Note:**

> tw's for complicated feelings about past abuse, discussions of abuse, guilt, and one small scene with minor self harm (head hitting) 
> 
> please heed the warnings and be cautious if any of that might upset you. feel free to come talk to me about it on my tumblr buckysbears

He stares.

He stares because it hurts. He stares because if he doesn’t stare, he’ll pace. He’ll grind his teeth. He’ll wring his hands. He’ll be nothing but movement, coiled and anguished, and he’ll move and move until he screams and then he’ll keep going until there’s nothing left to move. He’ll wear himself down until he’s no more than a tread in the ground.

So, he stares, carefully still. Lets all the movement happen internally, only things he can’t help. Things that won’t stop, even if he asked nicely. The slow expansion and disinflation of his lungs as he breathes. The beating of his heart.

He wishes it would all stop. He wishes he’d just turn to stone. He feels like he _should_ turn to stone, looking into her eyes like this, even if it is just a photo. A photo of before she turned. When she was little more than stone herself. Stone, and wires, and electricity.

Is he made of anything more than that?

Yes, he figures. Blood and tissue. Soft flesh. That’s what keeps getting him into trouble.

Even after the knock on his door comes, he keeps staring, barely even registers it. The sound floats in one ear and out the other without fanfare. He doesn’t lift his head when the door creaks open, and then shuts. He doesn’t look over when someone sits on the bed next to him.

“That … _really_ doesn’t seem healthy,” Daisy says.

Once the words make sense in his brain, a few seconds later, he almost laughs. She’s right, of course. But only in the sense that nothing that’s happened these last few weeks have been healthy. And really, what’s a photo going to do to him that the real person hadn’t?

Daisy plucks the tablet from between his fingers and tosses it to the foot of the bed. He doesn’t fight her. Ophelia—AIDA, at that time (should he still call her AIDA? Would that make a difference? Does it matter?)—stares up blankly toward the ceiling.

Daisy reaches over and flips the tablet so the screen is facing the bed. “Better,” she remarks.

Fitz crosses his arms, squeezing his hands into fists and squeezing his fists against the sides of his rib cage. He can still feel the sting on the back of his hand from when he slapped Daisy. It wasn’t real, technically, but he’ll never forget the feeling. He knows neither of them will.

“Haven’t seen you all day,” Daisy says, like that hadn’t happened, like everything is fine between them. Like she can’t fathom the reasons why he might be avoiding her. Avoiding all of them. “Have you eaten anything?”

Slowly, he shakes his head.

“Have you even left this room?”

He shakes his head again.

She pats the bed next to her—near his leg, but not touching. “Come on, I’ll make you a sandwich or something.”

“Can’t,” he manages to choke out.

“Can’t what?”

“Eat.”

He doesn’t look at her, but from his peripherals he can see her studying the side of his face. “Okay,” she says easily. “How ‘bout a smoothie?”

“Why—” He reaches up to rub at the spot of tension between his eyebrows. “Why are you here?”

He doesn’t mean to sound antagonistic, he just honestly wants to know. Why she came, why she cares.

“I was worried.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I know you’re not okay right now. And you’re my best friend, Fitz. I can’t just sit by while you’re feeling like this.”

He still doesn’t look at her. “I- I let you get tortured. I hit you.”

“I choked you. I threatened you. So, we’ve both done some bad shit when we weren’t ourselves. That makes us even.”

Finally, he looks up, and almost flinches back from the sight of her honest face. 

“Is it that simple for you?” he asks.

She nods.

He sighs, looking away and squeezing his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s not that simple for me.”

Daisy shrugs next to him, settling back against the pillows and stretching her legs out, wiggling her toes. “You’ll come around.”

He huffs a laugh, disbelieving, not sure how this can make so much sense to her.

“Why were you looking at that anyway?”

His eyes dart back to the tablet, then away, at the wall. He picks at the fabric of his pajama pants, which he never bothered to change out of.

“Dunno,” he mumbles.

Daisy watches him. “I feel like you do.”

His next breath comes out a little shaky. He’s supposed to be talking about this kind of thing with the SHIELD psychiatrists. With a professional. Coulson mandated that he see one after Ophelia had finally been taken down, and the team had relocated to one of the few still-standing SHIELD bases. But … it’s not like they’d understand. It’s not like they’d get it. They’d give him platitudes with no real understanding behind them, just as fake as the Framework had been. So he’d gone to a session, because Coulson had asked. But he hadn’t spoken. Just stared down at his hands.

He stares down at his hands, now. Down at his hands which did so much. Did things he never thought he would be capable of.

“I just—” His fingers tangle together. “I was trying- I guess- I- I was—” He sighs, short and frustrated. “I was trying to figure out why.”

“Why what?”

“Why she did it.”

“AIDA?”

He nods, stomach curling at the name, at hearing it out loud.

“Well, I can tell you that.”

Fitz’s head whips up to look at her. She stares back at him.

“She was just like Hive. All she wanted was control. She couldn’t control the circumstances in which she was created, couldn’t control her own life, so she had to control other people’s.”

“But why me?” he asks, and then darts out of the bed, no longer able to tamp down the need to move. He starts to pace, just like he knew he would. His teeth grind together. His hands lift to tug at his hair. “Why did she have to control _me?_ ” And then he continues, “She said she cared about me. She said she cared, but she- she still did all those things.”

Daisy watches him pace back and forth at the foot of the bed. “Hive said the same thing. Neither of them cared. Not really. They just wanted the power. And there’s no greater power than manipulating someone else.”

“But she chose _me_ to manipulate. Me to control. That means something.”

“It means she had the opportunity.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head fiercely. “No, it means something.”

“Like what?”

His hands drop, and his arms wrap around his middle. He stops pacing, staring at the ground, mouth slack. “I was weak.”

“Hey,” Daisy bites, rising off the bed as well. “You’re not weak.”

He stares somewhere near her feet as she approaches him. “No, I- I am. She knew she’d be able to control me. Bend me however she wanted. She knew she could manipulate me, she knew I’d be compliant, and she knew exactly how to change me.”

“Because you’re a _person_ , Fitz. It’s because you’re human like the rest of us. That’s why you’ve got weak spots. That’s why you’re able to be used. It doesn’t make _you_ weak.”

 “I think it’s me. It’s not because I’m a person, it’s just me.”

“Being abused doesn’t make you weak.”

His gaze shoots up to meet hers, and he quickly looks away, tears stinging behind his eyes. “Don’t call it that.”

“Why? That’s what happened. That’s what she did to you.”

He shakes his head, pressing the balls of his hands into his eyes, something wretched building in his chest. “Don’t call it that.”

“That’s what happened, okay? It’s a scary word, I know. And it sucks ass, it really does. But that’s what happened.”

He can feel vomit in the back of his throat, and he swallows it down. His eyes find the dresser, and find the frame sitting there with the stock photo behind the glass, and without hesitation he picks it up, cranks his arm back, and flings it at the wall, as hard as he can. It hits and shatters with a _crash_ , raining down to the floor. Still, the nervous, chaotic energy courses through him. His head feels too full, too panicked.

He needs to calm down.

He hits himself, once, palm to his forehead, a solid _thunk_ , and feels the energy abate somewhat, head clearing. So he does it again, on his temple. And then again in the middle of his skull, pounding with both hands again and again, the pressure and pain keeping him some semblance of calm. Keeping him from going off the edge.

“Hey,” Daisy barks, and grabs at his arms. “Hey, stop that.”

_Stop that._

He does. But only because his mind has grafted onto a memory. Not a real memory, but one from the Framework. It feels real all the same. Can a memory really be said to be ‘not real’? Isn’t the act of remembering the thing that makes it a memory?

His father is standing in the doorway. Something’s happened, and Fitz is upset. He was hitting his head. His father doesn’t like it when he does that.

“Stop that,” his father says. And then, “It’s pain you want? You don’t give it to yourself, son.”

His father had given him the belt after that. Fitz had been horrified and relieved all at the same time.

Now, he jerks away from Daisy, eyes wide and tearful. “Stop,” he chokes out. “D-Don’t- Don’t—” He reels back, and ends up on the ground, tailbone aching from how he landed. He digs his fingers into his hair, tugging softly against his now sore scalp. His breath comes in shaky gasps.

Daisy kneels in front of him, hands raised. “Okay, I won’t touch. I’m sorry. I won’t touch.”

“It- It—” He bites hard on his lower lip, but a sob escapes anyway.

Daisy just watches him carefully, hands still raised.

“It happened again,” he manages.

Daisy sinks to the ground, slowly lowering her hands to her lap. “What did?”

“W-With my dad. And Ward. And then my dad again. A-And then Ophelia—AIDA.” His lips twist, fighting back against another sob. This one, he manages to keep contained. “It keeps happening.”

Daisy’s face crumples, just a bit. “I’m sorry.”

“That _means_ something,” he says, though he knows he’s just echoing himself from earlier. But the sentiment weighs heavy on his chest. Surely, surely, this all must mean something. There must be a _reason_.

“It means you got dealt a shitty hand,” Daisy says.

Fitz shakes his head.

“That’s all it means. It means you’ve had some bad people in your life. That’s it.”

His head is still shaking. He presses his hands against his eyes, and they feel wet and puffy. “It means something. I- I must’ve done something. Must be doing something. There’s something about me.”

“Well—”

Fitz’s head shoots up.

Daisy looks like she’s thinking hard. “You believe the best of people, Fitz. You always have. You believe that people are good and you believe in them with everything you’ve got.” Daisy’s eyes blare into his own. He’s shaken by her gaze. “And that’s not a bad thing. Hell, Fitz, that’s not a bad thing. It’s such a good, brave, kindhearted thing and that’s what makes it worse. Because that’s what people are taking advantage of. Your goodness. Your loyalty. That’s ‘the thing’ about you. It’s not a weakness, it’s a goodness that people know how to use against you.”

Fitz sniffles, and looks away. Something settles in his chest. “Dad would’ve said it was a weakness.”

“Well, that’s how you know it’s not.”

He wrings his hands together, looking down at them as they shake. “I … I feel like I deserved it, still. All of it. Like I was inviting it, like it was all my fault.”

Daisy, cautiously, rests a hand on his leg. He doesn’t blame her, she’s always been tactile, so touch-hungry herself. “Fitz, you know that’s not true.” And then after a moment of consideration she continues, “But there’s a difference between knowing and feeling, right?”

He nods, glad she understands.

Her thumb rubs over his leg, touch heavy enough that it doesn’t ache him. “What would you have said to me? After Hive? What _did_ you say?”

“That it wasn’t your fault.”

“And did you believe that, or were you just saying it?”

“I believed it.”

“Then you’ve gotta believe that for yourself, too.”

His brows furrow. “I don’t know how.”

“You start by telling it to yourself—that it wasn’t your fault. You say it ‘till it makes sense. Then you tell it to other people. Then you tell it to yourself again. Say it until you believe it.”

His mouth opens, shuts, and opens again, and she’s quick to continue.

“You don’t have to tell me now. Not if you’re not ready. You know I already believe it. Say it to yourself until it gets easier, then come tell me.”

“I can’t see this getting easier.”

“It won’t. Not for a while. And that—” She shakes her head. “-absolutely sucks. Okay? It does. No getting around that. But it _does_ get easier. Eventually. And until it does, you take all the help you can get.”

“I can’t ask that of you.”

“Well—” She removes her hand to knock it against his knee. “Too bad, ‘cause I’m already here.”

He wipes his face, and is only mildly surprised to find his cheeks wet, though he’s not sure when the tears fell. “After everything I did to you—”

“Like I said, we’re even.”

He watches her, but she just smiles at him, calm, understanding. Her smile is honest, but he can see the weight of it behind her eyes. These aren’t empty platitudes. She understands. Maybe better than he thought she did. Maybe better than anyone else could.

He still doesn’t believe it. He doesn’t think he could be ‘even’ with anyone, not now, not after everything. But she seems to believe it. That’ll have to do for now.

“Okay,” he says, swallowing hard.

She hefts herself up, and then stretches. “Alright, let’s get you some food. Smoothie sound good? I’ll make it with extra bananas. And peanut butter.”

Cautiously, he stands, and wrings his hands as he stares at the closed door.

Daisy follows his gaze, then turns back. “Step one to feeling better is getting out of this fucking room. Step two is food—and maybe a shower, no offence—but step one comes first.”

“I …” He shakes his head.

Daisy’s lips twist as she thinks. “Okay, you know what? Where’s your suitcase?”

He blinks at her. “Under the bed. Why?”

“’Cause we’re having a pajama party. I’m borrowing some stuff ‘cause most of my clothes got kinda toasted.”

“Oh.”

She tugs his suitcase from under the bed and starts going through it until she finds what she’s looking for. A t-shirt from the Academy, and a pair of cotton boxers.

“You’ve got boxers with trains on them,” she says, holding them up to her waist, “that’s adorable. I’m definitely wearing these. Although, beware, ‘cause I have not shaved since we went into the Framework, so my legs are sprouting some small forests at the moment.”

He huffs a laugh, and then turns away as she strips her shirt off.

“You’ve seen me in a bathing suit,” she says as her jeans hit the floor. “I don’t see why you look away when I change.”

“Principle.”

“Whatever,” she says, laughing.

When she’s done changing, she grabs up his hand, tugging him into the hallway. She doesn’t let go until she has to, once they’re in the kitchen and she’s gathering supplies. They drink them at the small kitchen table, and Fitz only manages to drink half of his, but she grins at him anyways. He’s only somewhat surprised when she follows him back to his room.

There’s light coming in from under the door, but he leaves a lamp on anyway. They lie together on the small bed, both on their backs, pressed together out of necessity (and maybe just because they want to be), staring up at the popcorn ceiling.

Eventually, long after they both should’ve been asleep, Fitz asks, “How long did it take for you to forgive yourself? After Hive?”

“Still working on it,” Daisy admits.

Fitz reaches over, and finds Daisy’s hand with his own. She clings back fiercely. They lie in the bed, side by side, and don’t sleep for a long while.


End file.
